


Place Your Bets

by makesometime



Category: Avatar (2009)
Genre: F/M, Hate Sex, Poker, Resolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-25
Updated: 2012-03-25
Packaged: 2017-11-06 19:51:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/422573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/makesometime/pseuds/makesometime
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As is so very often true, it seems like a good idea at the time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Place Your Bets

As is so very often true, it seems like a good idea at the time.

When she overhears excited chatter in the lab one day, the words 'poker', 'beer', 'credits' floating around the room easily Grace is particularly unconcerned. It's not the first time her colleagues have tried to set up a gambling ring, likely won't be the last (what the fuck else is there to do in this hell-hole?). But this time, those three words are followed up by 'tournament' and 'security' and her interest is piqued.

"What was that?" She asks in the general direction of the conversation, waits for them to figure out how much to tell her as she continues reading over the datapad in front of her.

"Someone's set up a poker tournament, ma'am, SecOps versus the Avatar program." One of the lackeys explains (must be one of the new ones, no one else speaks so freely to her while still maintaining unnecessary deference – she's not one of Quaritch's goons, doesn't need the terms of respect to know she has power).

She feigns disinterest, nods her head distractedly and doesn't look up from her work. Evidently this is enough to satisfy the gossipers, as they head back to their stations and leave her in peace. 

But, later on in the small hours of the morning, she stops by the break room on the pretence of getting coffee and adds her name to the bottom of the sign up sheet.

After all, what's the worst that could happen?

-

A number of thoughts pass through Miles's head when he looks the pool sheet over on the day before the tournament is due to commence and finds Grace's name there in a striking cluster of pixels as frustrating and smug as the woman they originated from.

Surprise, that tight-ass Grace Augustine would lower herself to dealing with such trivialities.

Distrust, at the reasons behind her actions.

And pleasure at the thought that, looking at how the pool's been drawn up, it could very well come down to a straight battle between the two of them; gaining glory for their respective departments and bragging rights for themselves. 

He is, almost, willing to put money on that being the way things turn out because one, that's just the way the universe likes to fuck with things and two, Miles is ridiculously good at poker and he'll bet Grace is as well.

Why else would she sign up? Her pride is such that she wouldn't volunteer for a public humiliation; there's more to her motivation, he's certain.

He's anticipating finding out quite what that motivation is more than he has anything for quite a while.

That, once again, his mind is occupied by attempting to puzzle out the mystery that is Doctor Grace Augustine is steadfastly ignored.

Because this time he might actually manage it.

-

Grace knows that, at its heart, poker is a game of chance. You can have your strategical military mind, you can have your quick scientific brain, but if the cards don't fall your way you don't have a hope in hell of winning.

Luckily for her, the cards fall her way. Repeatedly.

It takes a while for things to come together – coordinating two entirely separate teams of people into meeting for a few hours at a time during key moments of negotiation between themselves and the Na'vi is a seemingly impossible task. The pool stages happen slowly, places on the final group table being booked with irregularity.

Grace ponders the thought that, were she a character in a clichéd work of fiction, she knows how things will turn out. And so, inevitably, they do – just to fuck with her.

The final table ends up split sixty/forty in favour of SecOps. Quaritch's smug smile when she settles down opposite him on the first night of the final round is enough to make her desire to rectify that burn just under the surface for the entire evening.

When the session ends up with four SecOps and four Avatar team members remaining, she takes it as a small victory.

Still. Room for improvement.

-

The room is already thick with smoke when he arrives, finding his soldiers already at the table, engaged in verbal banter with – what he has has to admit to being the better specimens of – the science department. His men straighten when he walks into the room, respect and control returning to them in the presence of their CO. He waves them off; tonight they're just colleagues, no need to let rank structure get in the way of him taking their money.

And then there's Grace Augustine sitting like the goddamn queen bee, in control of all she surveys with her glass of whiskey in one hand and cigarette hanging from the fingers of her other. 

Oh yes. He'll enjoy taking her money most of all. Doesn't focus on why, just pours himself a drink and waits to get dealt in. 

The previous night's play hasn't really given him a complete overview of the woman now seated opposite him. He's pegged her as having a hell of a poker face (but considering the size of the stick up her ass it's probably difficult for her to make many expressions in the first place). She remains intriguingly aloof and cold – even when she loses a hand.

And it's this, he thinks, that makes her supremely dangerous to him. An enemy that doesn't show care for their losses is always harder to undo in the end.

Harder. Not impossible.

-

It makes her laugh, the ease with which it comes down to just the two of them. It takes two more nights for the last of the hangers-on to fall away (though she's pleased to see they put up a fight, no sense of propriety forcing their hand).

Tonight it's just the two of them. Tonight it ends, one way or another. Neither are the kind to string these things out. The battle will be fought in liquor and chips, cigarette ash and cards. There can only be one winner.

And it's going to be her.

She hears the crowd before she even gets near to the breakroom and can't help the wry smile that forms. Figures that this would become an event. More money's probably been bet on the outcome of this match-up than is up for grabs from the tournament itself. 

Simply walking into the room earns her a hero's welcome. The table is all set up and ready, the designated croupier ready and waiting (one of Parker's men, as impartial as they're likely to get), a bottle of unopened whiskey and two glasses there for their indulgence. 

One of her guys has left a fresh pack of her favourite cigarettes by her glass and she tries not to dwell on the thought she may well need the entire thing for this.

Since the good Colonel is nowhere to be seen she walks over to Max, replies to his grin with one of her own, more reserved though it is. 

"Odds?" She asks quietly.

He shrugs, sticking with the impression that he wouldn't deal in such trifles for all of a second before he smirks. "In your favour, doctor."

She smiles properly now. "Glad to hear it."

The call of "Teeeeeeen-hut!" draws her attention to the door as the side of the room holding the SecOps thugs snaps to attention and they salute their CO when he enters. He smiles, sets them at ease and they all fall back into their previously relaxed positions. Grace watches him smile and squeeze Trudy on the shoulder as he passes, notes with interest the way he misses her resulting falter (poor, stupid, girl) as he walks to the table and stands by his chair.

"Ladies first." He drawls and Christ, if she hadn't wanted to beat him before she certainly did now.

"Then by all means, after you Colonel." She returns and the catcalls from all around her are deafening.

He almost - _almost_ \- looks impressed with her retort and as they both slide into their chairs in unison, him cracking open the bottle while she lights up her first cigarette, she intends to make sure that expression stays firmly in place.

She'll settle for chastened defeat though, naturally.

-

Things go his way at first. But it's a source of frustration that he'll never let show when Grace remains completely unconcerned in the decimation of her pile of chips.

"Not going so well Doc?" He goads.

She just smiles, a lazy shrug of her shoulders followed by a swallow of her drink. "It's early days, Colonel."

He snorts, gestures at her chips. Lifts the corners of his next hand and reviews his chances with outward disinterest. Not great. He looks up to see her looking a little smug, hates that he can't determine if it's a ploy or not. "You're going to need a few more of them to justify all that bravado."

She tips her head, bears her teeth in a mixture of a smile and a snarl. "Not how much you've got Colonel, it's what you do with it." There's laughter when she points at his pile with her cigarette disdainfully. "You'll forgive me if I don't believe there's more than bluster behind that... package."

Childish snickering echoes all around them then and he has to force himself not to react to her thinly-veiled insult. What is it about the woman that makes him allow her under his skin? He's better than that.

When he loses the next hand, badly, he curses before he can stop it.

Her already triumphant smile grows even wider.

-

It's getting on for two am when she catches Quaritch's eye and, through some kind of silent communication, realises that one way or another this will be the final hand.

She sneaks a look at her cards and feels a sense of inner calm wash over her that is striking enough to leave her a little breathless. It's a good hand, goes well with what's already in the river. She can win this. But why is it so important that she does?

The crowd is as keen as ever to see a resolution, enjoying the sight of two evenly matched players despite the late hour. Betting is still going on, odds switching, twisting and bending with each round.

Quaritch hasn't seemed to notice her moment of indecision, too interested in his own cards. If, just for a second, she entertains the thought of being able to read the man... she determines he looks almost celebratory already. Clearly they're both happy with what they've been dealt, but that doesn't mean much until the final card is turned.

When it is, they both exhale, drink and weariness slowing their reactions. Quartich grins, waits for her move. 

With a casual flick of her wrist she pushes her pile of chips towards him. "All in."

The room falls immediately silent, waiting. Miles complies with their wishes, pushing his chips to meet hers. "Call." He says slowly, then flips his cards over.

Straight Flush. His Eight and Nine to the river's Ten, Jack and Queen.

Grace frowns. That's a good hand. It's a shame it's come down to another damn cliché.

Sitting back in her chair she flips her cards over with a flourish.

Royal Flush. Her King and Ace to the river's Ten, Jack and Queen.

A winning hand, the best hand. Only the best for Grace Augustine.

The room just _erupts_ around them, cheers and whistles, curses and jeers flying around with alcohol-fuelled ease. Credits exchange hands as their audience floods from the room, leaving her and Quaritch alone.

She looks at him and can't hold back a laugh. She's never seen him look so stunned, not even when he came back from his first day out in the jungle with blood pouring from the side of his head.

At the sound of her laughter he looks up, cool blue eyes full of something between rage and disbelief. "You cheated." He says plainly, as if there's no other option that could possibly be true.

She rises out of her chair, picking up the coveted credit chip containing all of the pool's initial stakes. That'll look incredibly pretty when added to her current balance, she's sure. "I did not cheat, Colonel and you damn well know it." She says, turning to leave. 

He's beside her in a second, hand tight around her wrist. "There's no way that just happened, Doc. You cheated."

Grace wrenches her arm from his grip, wanting to take a step back but not willing to give him the satisfaction. So she stands her ground, on his level, stares him down. "Prove it." She taunts, before turning and leaving the room. 

-

She's halfway to her quarters when she realises that prodding the wounded beast was perhaps the _worst_ course of action she could have taken.

She's a hallway away from her door when she hears heavy footsteps not far behind her.

It's a battle not to hasten her steps, to flee from the problem she's caused for herself. When she reaches the quiet area of the base with solely her quarters in them she knows he's right behind her. Doesn't have time to unlock the door before he's there, an inch away from being pressed up against her back.

"Do you have any idea how much you're going to regret that?"

Grace laughs, bracing her hands against the door frame and shaking her head. "Winning a game of chance fair and square? What's to regret Quaritch?"

"You told me to prove it, Augustine and that's exactly what I plan on doing."

"What, by pinning me to my own door and _talking_ at me?" She scoffs. "Not going to work."

She feels the air shift around them, the vague threat settling and distorting into something else entirely. He steps closer, puts his hands on her hips and brings his mouth to her ear. "Open the door, Grace."

It's as if she isn't in control of her own body when she does as he commands, allowing him to walk her through into the room. Once he's kicked the door shut his hands tighten and spin her around, pushing her back into the hard metal.

Her breath leaves her in a rush and by the time she's breathing normally he's right there, pleased little smile at her easy capitulation on full display. "You cheated. And yes. I will prove it, by any means necessary."

Grace searches inside herself for some of the so-called bravado Quaritch had called her on earlier. Finds it severely depleted, but not completely gone. "I still don't see how you plan on accomplishing this frankly impossible task, Colonel."

He doesn’t speak, instead tugs her top from the waist of her pants, runs his hands up her stomach to cup her breasts through her bra, squeezing. Her eyes flutter closed (her excuse is that it's been far too long since anyone touched her like this) and she feels his rumble of laughter rather than hears it.

"Getting the picture now?"

She cocks her head, opens her eyes to fix him with her deep brown gaze; his own eyes darken in response to the heat she expects he finds there. "Could make it a little clearer." She suggests, hands coming up to rest over the fronts of his shoulders and push him away.

He goes, a fact that surprises her enough to set her right back on edge again, before she realises he has the hem of her top in his hands. With a wicked smirk he pulls, ripping the material like it's nothing and leaving it hanging uselessly from her upper body. She scowls, pushing it off and moving towards him, intending to do something about the way he's looking at her like he's already won.

Well, she has something over him at least. She knows she didn't cheat; somewhat believes he actually thinks she did. He can't make her admit to something she didn't do, no matter how good he looks when she pulls his tank over his broad chest.

His hands sneak out to grab her hips once more, pulling her to him and turning them so her back is to her bed. He pushes, leaning over her until she gives in to him, falling back against the mattress. He stands over her, a sizeable presence in her rather small room and it's a struggle to remember how he got her on her back so easily _now_ , after years of mindless snarking, mutual loathing and a somewhat healthy amount of flirting.

"Admit you cheated, or I'll leave."

She snorts, rolling her eyes. "Fine. Leave, then. I'm not going to lie just to get you to fuck me, Quaritch, I have more self-respect than that."

He growls in annoyance, signalling his threat was as empty as she thought. She can't say she's particularly disappointed when his hands reach for her belt and he starts to make quick work of her pants and underwear – though since until about a half hour ago the thought of leaving him outside with no oxygen would have been more appealing than his hands on her body, she probably should be.

She fights him but it's clearly a lost cause, the man is on a mission and she's struggling to find the desire to stop him. For all their words of anger and resentment, she has to admit this has been a long time coming and, maybe, one tumble between her sheets might be enough to put it to rest for good.

Then she watches as he removes his boots, unfastens his fatigues and lets them pool around his feet to expose him to her gaze (commando, _of course_ ) and she realises that one time will _never_ be enough. He's the very picture of masculinity, his muscular definition more impressive than she could ever have expected. Unclothed he's harder, bigger than she imagined in every possible way as he stands proud in front of her and it's a supreme effort not to reach out for him. The years of foreplay suddenly feel like a weight upon her chest that only starts to shift as he joins her on the bed, settling between her thighs (which fall apart without any urging or prompting, wantonly opening herself to him).

"Why do you think I cheated?" She asks as he looms over her, hands tracking warm paths up her sides, pulling her bra from her body. "I know Hell's Gate struggles to contain your ego but mine doesn't need feeding so much that I'd fix a game of cards."

He ignores her (what could he possibly say?) and just lines himself up with her, canting her hips up to meet him and grunting at her wetness against his length. He enters her with a sharp thrust and she lets out a long moan, a verbal expression of the waves of tension leaving her body at finally having him inside her.

Because like it or not, she's been waiting for this moment for longer than she cares to remember.

"You beat my straight flush with the only possible hand, Doc." He says, pulling out with exquisite slowness before thrusting back in and jarring her with the force of his movement. "Mighty fucking suspicious."

Grace grins, clenching around him as he withdraws from her once more. "Some of us are born lucky, Colonel. No need to cry over it."

"You cheated." He growls, punctuates it with another thrust. "Admit it."

She gasps, hands clutching at the slick skin of his arms, eyes open and defiant. "You're _such_ a sore loser."

She tries to flip him but there's not a chance in hell of her ever having the strength to do so. He just snarls at her, moves his arm from beside her head to hook under her thigh and pull it higher, stretch her wider and allow him deeper all in one movement. She lets out a high-pitched cross between a whimper and moan as he presses against the most perfect spot inside her and he laughs coldly. "Admit it!"

"Fuck you." She spits back, fingernails digging into his skin even as she adjusts her other leg to hitch over his hip.

"Thought that's what you were doing Doc." He drawls, working them into a harsh and unforgiving rhythm.

"You think you're so..." She starts, but suddenly his free hand is between them, fingers teasing over her clit and her words are completely lost.

"So... what?" He prods and she wants to rail at his damned composure, strike out and wipe the smugness from his face but he's so _big_ inside her, filling her so deliciously and teasing her body in just the way she wants and it's impossible to mount a counterstrike, to do anything other than submit and let him bring her over the edge.

When she breaks, pulsing around him and clutching tightly at his muscular form he follows quickly with a disgustingly victorious yell of completion, barely giving himself a moment to recover before he's rolling off of her, falling back against the bed with a satisfied groan.

It takes several minutes to catch their breath (fit though they are they're not as young as they used to be and by anyone's standards that was a hell of a fuck) but Miles continues to lie on her bed completely unconcerned by his own nudity and so she does the same. It's only her last shred of dignity that stops her reaching for the cigarette packet in her top drawer.

"Do you believe me now?" She asks, not sure whether to expect an answer.

She watches as Quaritch stands (the back view is almost as good as the front, a fact that she _really_ wishes she hadn't noticed) and tugs on his fatigues. Once he's fully clothed he turns to her and his eyes rake over her; prostrate and clearly more than sated, she imagines she must be quite the sight. He smirks. "Doesn't matter. I won in the end."

With that he stalks to the door and exits her room, leaving her defeated in her own space and already thinking up her best option for revenge.

Bastard.


End file.
